The Odd Couple
by Geeky-DMHG-Fan
Summary: An Effie/Haymitch story, beginning with their first interactions. Will eventually contain Hunger Games and Catching Fire spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: The other day, I was rereading a part in the Hunger Games where Haymitch enters the room and proceeds to vomit all over the floor, and Effie just steps all over him. For some reason I thought, "Hey, they would make a fun couple!" Not that they really are a couple, but I think there could be potential, and rereading their parts in Catching Fire has certainly raised my eyebrows. I'm probably reading too much into it, but whatever. :D

I also saw that another author on this site, gethsemane342, posted an Effie/Haymitch story too. Yeah for the E/H love.

I think I'm going to tell this whole story from Effie's POV. I've pictured her as a very Type A personality, and she's kind of snotty.

* * *

**The Odd Couple**

**Chapter One:**

**The Job**

* * *

I sit in the receiving room, right leg crossed over my left. My foot, clad in a beautiful shoe in a shade of blue that perfectly matches my wig and skirt suit, bobs up and down. It's moving in time with the calming strains playing over the office's speakers. On beat, naturally, but the motion reveals nervousness. Weakness. When I notice this, I still.

The door opens, and there appears a man in his forties. His name is Commodus Valentine. I know this because I've been researching this job for almost a year. He looks down at a stack of paper in his hands, then back at me, clearing his throat. "Floretta Emilia Trinket?"

I stand up, picking up my pale blue briefcase. "That's me," I chirp, demonstrating my tireless energy in the high pitch of my voice.

"Please, come in."

I follow him into his office. The room can only be described as opulent, covered in shades of crimson and gold. There are pictures of him along the walls with President Snow, and a few of the more popular Hunger Games winners. It's not that bad of an office, but I'm already visualizing it in a different set of colors—blues and grays—by the time I make my way over to the chair before his desk. Of course, I'm getting ahead of myself. It will be at least a decade before I would even be considered for this job. Most likely year 12 of my 20 year plan.

"So, Floretta…"

He's reaching across the desk to shake my hand, and I place my fingers in his, careful to apply the correct amount of pressure. Not too hard (I'm a lady) or too soft (I'm not a pushover).

I smile tightly as I sit down. "I prefer Effie," which he should know, since I clearly put that in my application. My name is…unfortunate. Out of all the wonderful Roman possibilities—the wives of emperors, goddesses—my parents had chosen a name that meant nothing more than 'little flower.' How was anyone supposed to take me seriously with a name like that?

"Alright, Effie…" He looks down again at my resume and the packet I had meticulously prepared. "This is most impressive. We've been following your progress over the past couple of years, and your mentors have spoken very highly of you."

I should hope so. "You're too kind, Mr. Valentine."

"Well, let's cut to the chase, shall we?"

I nod. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the spirals of my wig vibrating with my movements.

" There are two openings available," he says.

I know that too. One in District 4 and the other in District 12. And I'm quite certain which one I will be heading to. I've already purchased some heavy coats for District Four's unseasonable weather.

"You are by far our most qualified applicant, and I'm pleased to offer you the position as the Capitol's representative to District 12."

What?!

I can't help myself. I blink.

"Too happy for words I take it?" Valentine asks.

If he has any brains whatsoever, he knows what an insult this is. District 12? Full of ill-mannered boors and peasants. Only two victors in the entire span of the Hunger Games. The surviving one a drunken idiot.

I'm still too angry to speak, and he must know why, because he smiles almost apologetically. "I am not lying when I say you are the most qualified applicant. None of the others would be able to handle the District 12 job. If you do this, Effie, if you're patient, I guarantee that in a year, two at most, you'll be promoted to one of the better districts. Even District 1 if you like. And I plan on retiring eventually. Not now, mind you, but in the next five to eight years. I won't forget your sacrifice for the Capitol when I'm picking my successor."

Could I survive two years of District 12 if it meant getting my dream job before my current projections?

I look up and smile. "When can I start?"


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

**The Odd Couple**

**Chapter Two:**

**The First Meetings**

* * *

By train, it's a day's journey from the Capitol to District 12, and I'm pleasantly surprised to say I enjoy the trip.

The train is stocked with the usual amenities. I spend most of my time going over my Hunger Games files and District 12 profile, but make room for my daily jog. The exercise room is equipped with a treadmill, and after I've had the attendant move the machine so it faces the window, I start my run. Somewhere in the middle of my circuit, the scenery changes from the flat and yellow lands of central Panem to the hills and green of the East Coast. In some ways it reminds me of the land just outside the Capitol. A place I go hiking when I can find the time. I can almost picture myself moving out there, my sneakers crunching in the dirt and gravel rather than on this treadmill. It's one of the best runs I've had in a while, and when I look down, I notice I've run one more mile than my usual.

I _almost_ skip to the shower. My favorite scent, columbine, billows around me as the soap and oils wash over me. Dinner itself is marvelous too. I partake of my favorite meal and dessert, a reward for that extra mile. Even preparing for sleep is wonderful. My new pair of pajamas, a gorgeous gray set I had purchased with the money I got from returning my District 4 overcoats, feels glorious wrapped around my body.

When I wake up, refreshed and renewed, I stare at the train's ceiling. It is then that I decide my time in District 12 will be well spent. Who knows? Maybe my optimism and work ethic could inspire their normally pathetic tributes into doing more than dying the first day of the Games. And even if I can't accomplish the impossible and create a victor of my own, I will at least work on making the only District 12 mentor, Haymitch Abernathy, presentable.

I remind myself of this vow as I step off the train two hours later. The ground is uneven, and I almost regret wearing the three-inch heels. Almost. They look so stunning on my legs and really make my outfit.

Unfortunately, no one seems to notice as I make my way to the Justice Building with my small retinue. But that's alright. I really shouldn't expect these people to understand the higher points of fashion. Not when their outfits amount to nothing more than rags.

I arrive for my meeting with Mayor Undersee fifteen minutes early. It goes well. I can sense he is aware of how poorly his district looks year after year, and I'm thankful that I don't have to deal with any self-importance. His humility is something I can work with.

When we are through, I remain seated at the table, preparing for my next meeting. It is supposed to be with all of District 12's mentors, but because only one is alive, I have decided to take a different approach from the formal informational presentation I had readied. Perhaps I will try to be more personal.

But when Haymitch Abernathy finally ambles through the door, looking like he hasn't changed in weeks, I change my mind.

For who knows how long, I've been pacing the floor. The ache in my feet is easily forgotten in my anger. "You're late. I've been waiting here for…" I glance down at my watch, which had shifted on my wrist. Moving it so I could see its face, my voice rises as I notice the time, "Over an hour!"

He bows down low to the ground, mocking me. When he falls over, it warms my heart. But the brute isn't even ashamed, just smiles up at me from his place on the ground. "A thousand apologies, Effie."

"Mr. Abernathy, you are to call me Ms. Trinket," I lecture, stepping over his miserable carcass as I make my way to the table. "Get up. We've got work to do."

He just looks up helplessly at me from the floor. Shaking my head, I walk back over to him, trying not to wince at the blisters forming on the backs of my heels. I stick out my hand, raising my eyebrows expectantly, so he understands that while I'm offering help, he shouldn't believe for one second that I think him anything other than loathsome.

His hand reaches for mine, and just as I'm about to lean back to hoist him up, I'm pulled down into his arms. And they're strong arms. I try to push away, but I'm held fast.

"Not so fast…_Effie_." His breath is hot at my ear, and a shiver of fear courses down my spine.

"Ugh. You're drunk. And foul. Let go of me."

But he doesn't. My eyes dart around, looking for help, but we're all alone. I had dismissed my retinue for lunch when Haymitch had taken so long to appear.

_Think, Effie! _

I could scream, but he's squeezing me so tightly, I know it won't be enough. And then there's my heels, now covered with a layer of coal dust. My hand starts moving slowly to my foot, and I've eased off my shoe and am raising it behind his head. I'm just about to use my makeshift weapon when he pushes me out of his arms and onto the floor, like I'm a piece of trash.

I look up at him as I pull air back in my lungs. My eyes are wide at first, but as he towers over me, has the nerve to laugh at me, they narrow into slits.

"So the Capitol has sent us another scared, little girl. Well, don't worry, _Effie_. I may be drunk, but I'm not stupid enough to defile myself with you."

I raise myself from the floor, straightening my skirt. "I can guarantee you when I leave this sorry hellhole, it won't be because you've scared me away, but because I've been promoted to bigger and better things." I remove my other heel and walk towards him, my smile wide and achingly sweet. "And don't ever touch me again. Are we clear, Mr. Abernathy?"

"As crystal, dear," he says as he takes my seat.

Ignoring this slight, I sit in the chair across from him and look him over. I'd watched his Hunger Games during the last week in preparation for this meeting. It's been twenty years, but you can still see the vestiges of what had been a young and handsome victor. Even if he's repellent, I still experience a small twinge of excitement. It's my job to see potential in people and market them to the Capitol, and I'm good at what I do. Always. First in all my classes, from kindergarten all the way through University. Top apprenticeships and interships too. Correction: I'm not just good at what I do. I'm the best.

Unfortunately, all of Haymitch's potential is buried under a slight paunch and a face made puffy by alcohol. Still, if I could get him on an exercise regimen and off the booze, he'd be camera ready. Not for this year's reaping, which is tomorrow. But for next year. It will be my last, but everyone will know that I, Effie Trinket, had brought about the change.

I know it's impolite, but I continue to stare at him, picturing what he could become. He's almost ten years older than me, but I'm a young looking 27, and he and old looking 36. Luckily, his hair is still dark and wavy, though it's a complete mess. As it now stands, the only truly riveting thing about him is his eyes. Gray has always been my favorite color, and his are as beautiful and terrible as the stormiest skies.

What a waste that those eyes happen to be embedded in the head of a slovenly pig. For someone who survived arguably the most difficult of all Hunger Games, you'd think he would have taken better care of himself.

"Like what you see?" he asks, bringing me from my appraisal.

"That depends, Mr. Abernathy. You wouldn't happen to own a suit, would you?"

His answer is a snort.

"How charming," I manage, barely keeping the sneer off my face. "I'll make sure one is delivered to your home before tomorrow. Make sure you wear it."

"Whatever." He stands from the table just as I'm about to go over tomorrow's itinerary.

"Where do you think you're going?" I ask, standing from my chair as well.

"Home."

"But, Mr. Abernathy, you're supposed to give me a tour of the district and the Victor's Village."

"Maybe next year," he says, walking away from me.

Too angry to think rationally, I reach for one of my shoes and lob it at his head. He stops in the doorway, picking up the hot pink shoe that had hit the wall instead of the intended target. He's smiling at me now. "See you tomorrow at the reaping, Effie." And then he disappears.

With my shoe!

In spite of this, I have the suit delivered as promised. I am nothing if not professional. But the next day when I see him stumbling across the stage, he's dressed in the same clothes as yesterday. And if that isn't bad enough, I can smell him from ten feet away. Pathetic drunkard.

The reaping takes less than ten minutes, and I try not to frown at the boy and girl who were picked. They're scrawny and small, and there is no way I'm going to win with these two.

As they're ushered into the Justice Building to make their final goodbyes, I see Haymitch heading toward the train station. There is a part of me that realizes I'm just taking my anger at the situation out on him, but I don't care. He deserves it. He probably won't even remember it in the morning.

Rushing over, I stand in front of him, not letting him brush me aside. "Why aren't you wearing the suit?" I say through a clenched smile, ever mindful of the cameras.

"Yellow isn't my color."

"That's not the point. We are supposed to match. Show solidarity as the representative and mentor from District 12."

"You want to show solidarity?" he asks, his lips twisted in an ugly smirk.

And before I can answer, his lips are on mine. His mouth reeks of alcohol, and I try not to gag as he shoves his tongue down my throat.

It's repulsive, but the only thought running through my brain is that I shouldn't have gotten Haymitch a suit. What he needs is a toothbrush. Not that he would have used it.

The taint of being associated with District 12 is bad enough. I'm not going to let Haymitch add to it. Today, I make fine use of my high heels—the sunniest shade of yellow I could find—and slam the sharp point onto his foot.

As expected, he howls and releases me, and this time I get to tower over him and laugh as he glares up at me. But I do neither of those things, because I'm better than that. Better than him. I do, however, smile.

"Excuse me, Mr. Abernathy. Mustn't be late for the train."

I choose to ignore him on the way to the Capitol, immersing myself in talking with the two tributes. But they're so tiny and scared and hungry, that even I'm unnerved after a while. As I lie awake in bed, I tell myself those kids can't know any better, raised as they were in this backwards district. Who should know better, though, is Haymitch Abernathy. Since his victory, he has had yearly trips to the Capitol, and yet he is still one of the most disgusting creatures I've ever met.

I nurse my anger towards him throughout the entire Games. Of course, he doesn't have the decency to apologize for making me so upset. He's too drunk to even notice. Even if those poor kids from District 12 had a chance, he wouldn't have been able to do anything to help them. Lucky for them, they had no chance. They both died the first day.

And to really rub salt in the wounds, one of the tributes from District 4— the district that should have been mine!—some girl named Annie Cresta, wins the Games.

I hate District 12. But most of all, I hate Haymitch Abernathy.

Fortunately, I only have one more year to put up with him.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

People have been asking me if I plan on continuing Mad with Hunger. Yes, I do. FYI, I put updates on my stories in my profile.

And yes, I know Effie is a bit of an...unlikable person in this story, but she's getting there. Slowly but surely.

* * *

**Just One More Year**

* * *

"Back for more torture, I see," Haymitch says as he leans over and leers at me while Mayor Undersee reads the Treaty of Treason. I'd move away but the cameras are on us. All I can do is threaten him with bodily harm through my gritted teeth, which are arranged in the most brilliant of smiles. "Only one more year, and I'll never have to see your ugly face again," I say.

"Ugly? Is that any way to talk to your district's only victor?" he says, just before he pretends to pass out, his head falling into my lap. I can feel the heat of his breath on my knees as he tries yet again to intimidate me. Eventually he'll learn how futile his attempts are. I've grown up in the Capitol after all. It's not uncommon for men and women to walk the streets naked. I've long been desensitized. If he wants to scare me, he's going to have to do a lot more than rub my leg. As it stands, there is only one thing about him that truly affects me. His personal hygiene makes my stomach churn.

Much as I tried, Haymitch ignored all my encouragements to give up drinking and learn the benefits of healthy living. If anything, I think he's gained weight. He is so heavy, my legs are starting to fall asleep.

As soon as Mayor Undersee is finished reading the Treaty, I stand up, sending Haymitch rolling to the floor. The sudden impact "wakes" him up, and I hear him utter some obscenities, but I'm already making my way to the Tribute Train, ignoring the painful tingling that signifies my blood returning to my legs.

When the tributes enter the train over an hour later, I've already had an attendant lay out dinner for them. They dig right in, completely ignoring their utensils. I can't decide whether or not I should say something. People with manners aren't supposed to comment on other people's lack of manners, but I think I might lose my supper. And really, I would be doing them a favor. Their hands are so dirty, they're contaminating their food.

I pointedly raise my utensils and slowly bring the food to my lips in tiny bite-sized portions, hoping to telegraph how things are properly done. It's not use, and I think I'm about to be sick. I push my food away from me, deciding I'll eat when they are finished.

A few minutes later, Haymitch finally decides to join us, and I sit back, wanting to see how he'll go about mentoring these two. Whatever he decides to do, it can't possibly be worse than his performance from last year.

"You two know how to do anything?" he asks.

No answer. Why am I not surprised? This year, we have another two Seam children, and I don't know how it's possible, but they're scrawnier than the tributes we had last year. I doubt they have the strength to lift up a rock, and from dinner I already know they can't properly use a knife.

Apparently Haymitch is just as disgusted as I am. He grabs a bottle of wine and a glass, then stands from the table. Raising the empty glass, he says, "Well, it's been nice knowing you. Good luck and," he turns to me, smirking, "may the odds be ever in your favor."

Whatever. Mock me, you insignificant wino. I'm thinking up some more imaginative insults when this horrible sound interferes with my creativity. It sounds like an animal in the throes of labor. Or death. Perhaps both. I turn my head a fraction to see the girl tribute, crying. The boy doesn't look that much better. His lip is trembling, but he's managing to keep it together. I look to Haymitch for health, but all I see is his retreating back. Of course, he'd make them cry and leave me to pick up the pieces.

Unfortunately, I'm horrible at dealing with broken things. I've never been good with emotions. Ever. It's pretty much the only thing I am not good at. But I feel a bit badly for these two. How could I not? They have the worst mentor in all of Panem.

I'm at a loss, but I push a chocolate cake towards them. "Would you two like some more dessert?" I ask as cheerfully as possible. Chocolate's always helped me whenever I have a bad day. I can't even keep track anymore of how much I've had since I've become District Twelve's representative. It's a good thing I run daily.

The two kids shake their heads and the girl breaks down even more. "I don't want to die," she wails.

Oh, this is uncomfortable. I try not to squirm in my chair, but there is something wet glistening under her nose. Standing up, I grab a napkin and walk over to her side of the table. I hand it to her, and she takes it. Breathing a sigh of relief, I start to move back to my seat when she grabs me around the waist. At first I wonder if she is attacking me like Haymitch. Then I realize she's hugging me.

Trying to remember my training on what to do if a tribute breaks down, I pat her on the head, saying, "There, there." I do this about five times, but it's not having any effect. I want to pry her arms off of me but she just keeps crying harder. Now the boy is looking up at me, wide-eyed and bewildered. Thankfully, I can tell he has no plans on hugging me.

Eventually the girl's sobbing stops. She looks up at me and smiles. It takes all my willpower to ignore the coal stains she's left on my new suit and return that smile. "Thank you," she says.

"You're welcome…You know what I think you two need? A bath. That will certainly calm you down. Why don't you follow me to the showers and I'll show you how to work them. They have the loveliest smelling oils…" I continue to chatter as they follow me down the halls of the Tribute Train.

It's almost fun showing them how to use the baths. The girl jumps back as a spurt of hot water runs over her hand, laughing. Even the boy says something when I show them all the different oils available. I'm surprised to find they've never smelled roses before.

As soon as the tributes are off getting cleaned, I exit the showers and turn around to find Haymitch watching me. He's leaning against a door jamb, a glass of some alcoholic beverage firmly in hand.

"Nice look," he says, taking in my outfit from head to toe. It is smudged with coal dust and soaked in certain places. "Care to join me for a glass of wine?"

I don't know what it is about this man, but he really annoys me. Taking a deep breath, I manage to keep my voice down. "No, I do not care to join you for a glass of wine, or anything for that matter. And my outfit is ruined, thanks to you."

"Interesting, considering when I left you, you looked nothing like that."

I move to run my fingers through my hair, forgetting that I can't access it underneath my wig. My acrylic nails get stuck in the red curls, and that means I'll have to comb out my wig later.

"You could at least try helping them. They might not win, but they might be able to survive past the first day if you strategized with them, rather than drinking yourself into oblivion," I say, rubbing at the knot in my neck that I just discovered.

"They're beyond help," he says.

"And so are you. Can you even go a day without drinking?"

He takes a long sip of his drink before answering. "Don't know. Never tried. Not going to either, no matter how nicely you ask."

"Of course not. That would be expecting too much."

"Why do you care anyway? These kids are only tarnishing your impeccable record."

"I don't care, and they are doing no such thing. I already have my new job lined up. Starting next year, the only interactions you will have with me are as the representative of District One."

"We'll see about that."

There is a twinge of fear, but I instantly dismiss it. I'm one of the most well-connected women in the Capitol. Nothing happens without me hearing about it. Still, it can't hurt to ask. "Are you privy to information that I'm not, Mr. Abernathy?"

"Even if I were, I wouldn't share it with you."

Silly me, thinking a country bumpkin could possibly know something I don't. I wouldn't be surprised if he has the mental capacity of a slug. It's not as if any of his brain cells could survive after drowning in a sea of alcohol for so many years.

Reminding myself my time is precious and ought not to be wasted on Haymitch Abernathy, I turn and leave for my bedroom. I've taken three steps when he calls out, "Looks like the tributes have finally gotten to you."

"Good night, Mr. Abernathy."

"Word to the wise, it hurts less if you don't get to know them."

Since we seem to be doling out advice now, I make a suggestion of my own. "If you have such a hard time dealing with the tributes, perhaps you should work harder to help them win. Then you could pass off your responsibility to someone else. Problem solved."

"It's not that simple."

"Well, anything is better than the job you're doing now. You might not care about having the deaths of so many kids on your head, but it makes your district look weak. And that, in turn, reflects poorly on me."

For someone whose drunk, his eyes look rather alert. I see him sizing me up, but not in his usual way. There is actual menace in his gaze. More than menace. He looks like he wants to kill me and is plotting the best way to go about doing it. I force myself to return his glare, even as I feel a chill go down my spine.

But then that look fades away and he takes another sip of his drink, emptying the glass. "Be a dear, Effie, and have one of the attendants wake me when we reach the Capitol. And while you're at it, how about you have them send me some more wine?"

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

**The Odd Couple**

**Chapter Four:  
**

**The Letdown**

* * *

I stare up at the ceiling and blink. This is unusual. I am a creature of habit, and this creature has a strict in bed by ten o'clock and asleep by 10:05 policy. According to the blue light of my alarm clock, it is now 12:30. An attendant has already brought me some warm, spiced milk, but I cannot sleep, and I know I won't be able unless I run again. This is the way it's been for almost half a year, but I refuse to change my sleeping patterns. This will eventually pass.

Pushing myself out of bed, I switch my pajamas for a pair of running shorts and a tank top. After lacing up my trainers and pulling my hair into a ponytail, I silently make my way down the corridor to the exercise room. The halls are darkened, and outside it's even darker. I can just make out the outline of the countryside as the train speeds closer to the Capitol. Not that I need light anyway. The scenery never changes.

We will be arriving at the training center bright and early in the morning, and the first day in the Capitol is always one of the busiest. The sooner I get to sleep the better, so I increase the treadmill's incline to the steepest setting and run.

If I let my eyes unfocus on the blurred terrain zipping by the window, I can almost believe that I'm running straight into the sky, leaving everything behind. Like watching Silk and Carat volunteering for this year's Hunger Games. (_They_ should have been _my_ tributes.) Like knowing the District One train has already pulled into the Capitol. (_That_ should have been _my_ train.) Like picturing Livinia Oglethorpe sending her tributes to bed in preparation for tomorrow's events. (_That _should have been _my _job. _That _should have been _my_ promotion. Commodus promised. Two years. I'd be done. I'd be gone. Kept my part of the bargain. Just one thing left. The banquet for the victors. Then I'd be done. Then I'd be gone. Planned the best reception. All things considered. District 12 had nothing. District 12 was nothing. Still great success. Because of me. The banquet was done. The guests left. I could breathe. They were gone. I'd be gone. Waited for Commodus. He would call. Give me District One. What I deserved. Already had new wardrobe. Would destroy old clothes. Tainted with coal dust. Would watch them burn. They'd be gone. I'd be gone. Already told everyone. Friends. Family. Haymitch. Told him repeatedly. He'd be gone. Good riddance. Got the call. Not me. Livinia. My job. Gone. Gone. Gone…)

I pitch forward, collapsing against the machine. Apparently my time was over, because the treadmill had abruptly stopped. Pushing myself up, reality crashes in on me. My calves and thighs are shaking, and I grip the sides of the treadmill to keep from falling. My lungs feel like they are on fire. I put my hands behind my head and drag air back into my body, not caring that my mouth is wide open. Or that I'm drenched in sweat. It's running down my back, my legs, my face. Everywhere. I must look hideous, but that's alright. This is the only place where appearances don't matter. No wigs. No heels. No suits. No witnesses. I run by myself. I run as myself.

Beads of perspiration trickle down my nose, and I swipe the towel across my face, careful to soak up all the sweat. I've never liked the feeling of being sweaty, and the sooner I hit the shower, the better. I just hope I can drag myself there. The run has done its job. I am weary beyond words, and more importantly, beyond thought.

I lower the towel, and not even a second passes when more drops fall on the black tread. How is that possible? I touch my face and realize that the dampness is localized to one place: the area under my eyes.

I'm crying.

But I don't cry. Something is wrong.

I brace myself against the machine, slowly breathing in and out as my heart beat returns to normal. The seconds pass, and I've just about calmed down when I get this odd feeling. Like someone is watching me. I slowly straighten up, careful not to make any sudden movements. I pretend to stare out the window, and I see that I wasn't being paranoid. The reflection tells me I'm not alone.

Haymitch is watching me.

Running the towel over my face once more, I turn around.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, trying to sound like I always do around him: annoyed. It isn't difficult.

"I was just about to ask you the same thing," he says.

He's staring at my face. Yes, I'm sure it's red, but that can be easily accounted for by my recent run. And if there are any tears that managed to escape my towel, those can be explained away as perspiration. Still, I feel unnerved, though I'm not about to let him see that.

"I was exercising. Obviously."

"I didn't know you run. You certainly don't need to. You're tiny."

Most women would find that flattering. But Haymitch doesn't make compliments; only observations. And he's seeing me as no one ever has before. Out of costume. I have spent years carefully cultivating Effie Trinkett's image. It's the only way to get ahead in the Capitol, where everything is dependent on how others think of you. If you let them, they will mold you. But not me. I tell them what to think.

My brightly colored clothing grabs their attention, reflects that I'm important and should be looked at and admired. The cut of my suits demonstrates my sophistication, and even goes one step further. Their design shows that I am capable. That I'm in charge. Even my wigs and shoes contribute to the overall picture. They announce, "Effie Trinkett shows exquisite attention to detail, and is always so well put together. She is the consummate professional." They also have the added benefit of adding five extra inches to my frame. Without them, I barely hit five foot three. Since I'm a larger than life personality that just will not do.

But right now I look about eighteen years old. Probably sixteen without any makeup. This is hardly the image a District escort wants to project, even if she works for one as embarrassing as District 12. I look small, unimportant. My shorts and tank top scream, "little girl." I don't even want to think what my ponytail communicates. It wouldn't be nearly so embarrassing if Haymitch weren't staring at me from the doorframe, completely blocking my only path of escape. From his file, I know he's only two inches over six feet. I've seen tributes much bigger than him, but he's still almost a foot taller than me. And nearly one hundred pounds heavier.

I can only hope he's drunk and won't remember a thing in the morning, though it really shouldn't matter. He might be physically larger than me, but he's ruined whatever edge that would give him in the people's eyes. It's almost pitiable, really. He won the most difficult Hunger Games, and he did it while being rugged, handsome, young; charming in that backwoods way poor people have. He could have gone down in history as the greatest victor of all time. Now he's only remembered as an incompetent lush. Lucky for him, the people of the Capitol find him amusing; otherwise they wouldn't remember him at all. No wonder I find him so frustrating. I had to work for everything I have, and even then, being the best wasn't enough. But Haymitch, he could have had anything he wanted, and he chose alcohol.

I can't stand the sight of him, and I can't stand him seeing me like this.

"My running's no secret. If you put down the bottle for a second, you'd notice a lot of things. Now get out of my way."

But he won't move his arm, which is blocking the doorway. He just stares down at me from his perch. As if he has any right to judge me. The smell of liquor on him is so strong, my nose wrinkles.

Naturally, he finds my disgust funny. Even so, it's different. I've always found him repulsive, but he's never laughed like this before.

"You have freckles on your nose," he says.

I tamp down the urge to cover my face with my hands. I hate the very idea, but maybe it's time to consider wearing makeup when I run. At least when I'm in the vicinity of nosy drunks.

"Yes, I do. Now would you please move? We need to be awake in less than six hours, and I still have a shower to take," I say, still trying and failing at getting by him.

"Why do you wear those stupid wigs?"

His fingers and lips twitch simultaneously, which are telltale signs of mischief. But if he so much as touches my ponytail, I will strangle him with my towel. "The wigs look good on camera, which you would know if you ever listened to anything I said. I've certainly told you to wear them often enough." I don't even know why I bother anymore. He will always do what he wants to do, regardless of my advice. Sometimes I think he knows I'm right; he just does it to spite me.

"Your eyes are red."

I stare back at him, confused. I hadn't worn those contacts in at least a month. "No, they're not. My eyes are blue."

He leans in closer, and I try not to cringe. "You've been crying," he says.

I have no answer for that.

"Is this because you didn't get the District One job?" he says.

Haymitch hadn't said anything to me about my failed job prospects until now, and I realize I've been tense, waiting for it to happen. Now that it has, I actually feel better. Not by much, but at least it's one less thing to worry about. I can handle this.

"I have no idea what you are talking about," I say.

He pulls me into a hug. I try pushing him away, but he won't budge. Why I haven't stomped on his foot and made him move is beyond me. It must be because I feel so tired.

"Cheer up, Effie. At least we still have each other."

I laugh. Hard. The noise is loud, unexpected. It's real. Completely unlike the girlish twittering I adopt in public. My eyes widen in shock, and I see that Haymitch looks as surprised as I do.

"You poor, deluded fool. This is it. I am leaving this District if it kills me. I'll even go to 11. Anything is better than working with you."

"Well, while we're pouring our hearts out, I have a confession of my own," he says.

I don't have any more time to indulge this foolishness. Lifting my wrist, I point to the watch. "Make it quick."

"You didn't get the job, because I asked Valentine for you to stay."

For a second, all I can do it stare at his face, uncomprehending what he's said. I blink, trying to puzzle out this recent revelation. How could such an unimportant man like Haymitch have Commodus' ear? Why would Commodus listen? Why would my boss let me believe it was an inferior job performance that cost me the District 1 job? And why is Haymitch telling me this now? But that's not even the biggest mystery.

"Why would you do that?!" I screech.

"I'm in love with you."

What?! I mean, it's understandable. I'm a lot prettier than the people in his district. Certainly, I'm more sophisticated and knowledgeable. He grew up in squalor; of course he is looking for the finer things in life, but I'm not available. Ever. Still, I should at least try to let him down gently.

Screw that. This bastard cost me my job and ruined my life.

"I hate you! You're vile and stupid and lazy. The exact opposite of what I would want in a man."

I gleefully anticipate seeing his face fall, but instead he starts laughing. I smack him as hard as I can across that smug face.

That shuts him up. His eyes quickly narrow, and I'm about to slap him again, when he grabs my wrist and yanks it to his chest. "The feeling's mutual, dear. I have nothing but contempt for you. Actually, you aren't even worthy of that. I pity you. I may be vile, stupid, and lazy, but that's infinitely better than self-absorbed, ridiculous, and callous. But that's how all you Capitol people are. Though for a second, without all your idiotic clothing, you almost made me believe you were human."

Self-absorbed. Ridiculous. Callous. Not even human.

I knew he disliked me, but no one has ever spoken to me like this. And what does he mean, I'm not even human? I can feel my eyes begin to water. It must be leftover from earlier, because I certainly don't care what he thinks.

"As far as I'm concerned, I did you a favor. You needed to be taken down a peg or two, and since it was in my power, I happily obliged."

So that's it. He's just jealous of me, like anyone from the districts would be of someone who lived in the Capitol. No wonder he told Commodus to keep me back. Haymitch wanted to bring me down to his level.

Well, he's going to regret that. He might not believe it, but I can fight dirty too. You can't succeed in the Capitol unless you learn to adapt. He thinks I'm inhuman? Fine, let's see how he likes dealing with a beast. Grabbing him by his dingy shirt, I pull his face down to mine and practically snarl out, "If that's what you want, Haymitch, but I will not be the only person miserable. I plan on making your life a living hell."

"It already is."

This time when I try to push him out of the doorway, he lets me by.

* * *

**To Be Continued**

**

* * *

**A/N: I don't know why I labeled this story Friendship/Romance. It should be more like Angst/Romance and a little bit of humor. I think this is a tipping point for both them, so hopefully things will be a better for them in the future.

Thanks for reading. Please review.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

**Chapter Five:**

**Even More Disappointment**

* * *

After last year's meltdown with Haymitch and the Games that followed, I took some time to reevaluate my handling of the District 12 situation. Weighing all the pros and cons, I reached my decision. I chose apathy. As a result, I avoided the tributes on the train, though not soon enough to miss them destroy their food and my appetite. What is it with District 12's aversion to table manners, or manners of any kind for that manner?

Now that we're in the Capitol though, I can't excuse my absence any longer. Without me, everything would fall apart, and I'm too unselfish to let something like that happen. Besides, I owe it to myself to do the best job I can. It's how I'm wired, and I will be this way till the day I die.

Which is unfortunate, if the girl tribute is anything to go by. I really wish I didn't care, because then being District 12's escort wouldn't be so embarrassing. I leave the girl tribute's room, shaking my head. This year is shaping up like all the others: a disappointment. Squeezing the doorknob, I take a second to compose myself before checking on what the stylist's team has done with the boy. Not that I can't guess. It will either be a unitard and lamp with headlight or coal dust. It's drab and boring, but who can blame Antonia when she has so little to work with. Still, I hope they fire her and give me someone else to at least break up the monotony.

Pasting a smile on my face, I push through the door. The boy is not even dressed, just standing there naked on a podium.

Huh. He doesn't look half bad now that he's had a haircut, been washed and shaved, and fed a few meals. He's thin, but his frame is large. More importantly, he has a gorgeous face. Perfect for camera close-ups. And his black hair and gray eyes are stunning. If he had grown up in one of the richer districts, he'd probably be a contender.

"What did you say your name was again?" I ask.

"Lance Oakley."

It's a strong name. Sturdy. I'm already thinking of how I want to play him up to potential sponsors. Maybe, just maybe this will be the year one of the tributes lives past the first day. I can only hope.

I turn to Antonia, who is approaching him with some kind of miner's jumpsuit. "Can you make sure his face is visible and stays that way? I don't want the miner's lamp obscuring it," I say.

Antonia gives me a withering glance, but she can do that till the cows come home. Maybe if she were better at her job, I'd have more faith in her ability to identify a tribute's selling points and highlight them to their advantage.

"Anything else, Effie?" she asks, her pug nose made even more unflattering by the way she's contorting it into a sneer.

"No. That's all for now, though if I think of anything, I'll be sure to let you know."

Turning back to Lance, I say, "My job is to help you with your presentation. We'll be meeting more throughout the upcoming week to discuss things like your interview. Now I'll leave you with Antonia so she can finish getting you ready for the Opening Ceremony."

He doesn't say anything. Just nods and blushes. I'll have to work on his demeanor. He radiates tenseness for some reason, which does not go over well in the Capitol. The only thing worse is desperation.

I shut the door behind me, this time with a genuine smile on my face. It disappears the instant I turn around.

"Well, what do we have here? I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."

This meeting is inescapable. A necessary evil if I'm to help Lance. And the sooner I get it done, the sooner I can live my Haymitch-free existence.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Abernathy."

"Ooh, last names now, is it? Alright, _Ms. Trinkett_, how may I be of service?"

Haymitch's eyes trail down to my legs, smirking. I look down and see that my fingers are tightened around the material of my skirt. When did that happen? I quickly smooth out the wrinkles and focus on the task at hand.

"You are meeting with the sponsors after the Opening Ceremony tonight, are you not?"

Haymitch shrugs. "What do you care? Pretty boy caught your interest?"

"His name is Lance."

Haymitch laughs. "Even taken the time to remember his name. You must really like him."

"I have nothing but a professional interest in him." He may be an unprofessional nitwit, but I never break the rules, and this one's the big one. Escorts are never to get attached to their tributes. The boundary between district and capitol must always be observed.

"He's not going to win."

I know that! Does Haymitch think I'm an idiot?! No, just self-absorbed, ridiculous, callous, and inhuman. Well, then. "I have no delusions about Lance's odds of winning, but I don't see why he couldn't make it past the first day."

"What difference does it make? First day, second day, third…Either way he's dead."

I can't believe I'm admitting this, but Haymitch is right. And yet I don't care. He might be able to sit back and do nothing, but I can't. Not when there's an opportunity to do something other than giving up and dying on the first day.

"It's our jobs. We owe it to him, Haymitch! If you'd--"

"Now it's Haymitch?" He clears his throat, holding up his hands in what would be surrender were anyone else but Haymitch giving the signal. He might as well be showing me the middle finger. "I forgot I'm not supposed to interrupt. Please excuse me and my atrocious district manners. Pray continue, Ms. Trinkett."

I am this close to walking away, but visions of sponsorships and parachutes and Lance hold me back. I'm going to hate saying these words, but sometimes flattery is necessary to get what you want. "I know you are good with strategy. You'd have to be to make it out of your Games."

"You'll have to forgive me, seeing as how I'm stupid," he smiles, "and drunk. But that sounded an awful lot like a compliment."

As often as he acts like a beast, it's easy to forget that, at bottom, Haymitch is a man. And there is nothing more effective at getting a man to agree to a request than giving him the illusion of power and control. I learned that long ago in my people management class, and have seen it borne out through years of personal experience.

I raise my hand to my chest, a sign of weakness and deference. "Maybe it was. I certainly can't provide Lance the kind of help he needs. Only you can." A half-truth. How hard is it to see that you should run and hide? It's not a winner's strategy, but that's not what this situation requires. Lance just needs to live long enough to see the next sunrise. Unfortunately, I need Haymitch to seal agreements with the sponsors. Otherwise, he'd be completely irrelevant instead of just mostly.

"So, you want me to strategize with him? Give him more than my usual 'stay alive' speech?"

"I don't think that's too much to ask, seeing as how that's your job." _Careful, Effie._ My mask almost slipped there for a second.

"And you want me to ask the Capitol folk to sponsor a District 12 tribute when they could just as easily waste their money on a tribute with an actual chance of winning?"

"You'll have to clean up and wear a suit. And sober up for a few hours, but the Capitol has pills for that. I'm sure you can handle" _swallowing_ "it."

"And run the risk of ruining my image?"

What image? He must be joking, so I indulge him with a smile. "It's the only way. The sponsors need to take you seriously, see that you believe in Lance's success."

"But I don't."

"Then lie." It's not like he'd have a problem with it. I can't imagine Haymitch having any moral scruples about, well, anything.

"So, even though we're both agreed he's not going to win, you want me to expend my, as you so often point out, limited intellectual resources and develop a strategy to stave off his inevitable death, in addition to giving up drinking right before I have to endure the painful process of allowing you to dress me so I can then meet with the most boring and loathsome products the Capitol has ever assembled?"

"That sounds about right."

"Alright, Ms. Trinkett. But only on two conditions."

I think I can live with that. "Go on."

"First, no matching outfits. And I only wear black, gray, or white. That's it."

He really should consider navy or some other shade of blue. It would bring out his eyes much better, but I'm not going to push it. "Of course. Your other condition?"

"Say 'please.'"

What I wouldn't give to have played in the Hunger Games and become a mentor. Then I wouldn't have to grovel before this district rabble. Unfortunately, rules are rules.

"Please," I say.

"Good girl. Just send up my suit when it's ready."

* * *

Miracle of miracles. Haymitch Abernathy managed to acquire some funds for Lance. Not as many as he should have considering how much interest I'd managed to arouse in the potential sponsors. And that's not even including how well Lance did in his interview. I would say he did surprisingly well, but it was no surprise to me. He was a friendly and cheerful student once he had his clothes on, and I expected nothing less of him. If I had been in charge, well…I won't go there. At least Haymitch managed not to drive everyone away. And now that he's done that, he's back to drinking.

Thankfully, I have some people to pass the time with. Sitting on a couch in the Games Headquarters, I'm surrounded by a few of the other districts' escorts. As a general rule, we keep away from the mentors. We only interact with them as business requires, though some escorts (District Four's Alexandria Farrow, for example) have more trouble doing this than others. I can see her now, draping herself over a guy who's at least ten years her junior. It's tacky and ridiculous. If I'd been the escort, Finnick Odair wouldn't need to worry about wearing me as a winter overcoat.

Even if it weren't horribly unprofessional, the escorts have other reasons for not associating with the mentors. I've actually found that for the most part—a lovely woman from District 8 named Cecelia being the only exception—Victors are boring. And if you can actually get them to talk to you, they're rude. I don't understand why it upsets them so much to talk about their own Games. After all, winning the Games is what allowed them the privilege of these yearly vacations to the Capitol in the first place. You'd think they'd realize that and be grateful. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you.

I'm not the only one who notices Alexandria's behavior, and I'm just about to contribute to the conversation when I get bumped from behind, causing me to spill my drink all over my suit jacket. There is a collective gasp from my coworkers, and I frown over the stain that has blossomed on my chest. Eyes narrowed, I look up to identify the bumbling idiot who ruined my outfit.

It's Haymitch's District 11 crony, Chaff. I've never spoken to him directly (if I have to interact with District 11, I speak with his female counterpart, Seeder), but I've seen those two passing drinks back and forth for years, no doubt racing to see who can kill their liver first. I can tell you who I want to win, and while it's not Chaff, I don't have much love for him either. Any friend of Haymitch is my enemy.

"Maybe next time watch where you're going," I say, standing to remove my soused jacket, which now reeks of alcohol.

"Sorry, _Miss…_"

Don't take the time to learn my name during these past four years, and expect me to gladly offer it? I don't think so. I shoo him away with my hand, but he stands there smiling, his teeth a bright white against his dark skin.

"Hey, aren't you Haymitch's girl?"

"I most certainly am not!" I hiss, outraged at the very idea. And I'm not alone. I take in the expressions of those around me—repulsed, appalled, shocked—except for Chaff, who is laughing.

"No, I think it's you. Snooty, spunky…pretty. Fits Haymitch's description to a T," he says.

Not wanting to subject the other escorts to his boorish behavior, I excuse myself and walk a few feet away with Chaff.

"Why don't you join us? Haymitch is feeling a bit lonesome," he says.

I mutter through my clenched teeth, which are firmly locked in a smile for any nosy onlookers. "As far as I'm concerned, Haymitch can drop—"

At the sound of his name, Haymitch looks over and smiles, raising his drink in toast. So, he put Chaff up to this? Then he owes me a new suit. Grabbing another flute of champagne, I march over to Haymitch, Chaff following closely on my heels.

"Look who I've brought," Chaff says, wrapping his good arm around me. I try not to shudder, but only just succeed. Thankfully, he didn't use his deformed limb. It disturbs me how he won't let the Capitol replace it.

"Ah, the old ball and chain," Haymitch says, crossing his arms behind his head and leaning back into the sofa. "Miss me?"

Ignoring Haymitch, I peel off Chaff's offending limb from my bare skin. "If you want to keep the hand you have left, keep your grubby paws off me."

"Don't listen to her. She's all bark, no bite. A kitten, really," Haymitch says.

To my amazement, Chaff actually starts purring at me. I'm so tempted to claw his eyes out, but that isn't why I came over here.

"I just bought this suit and now it's ruined. You owe me a new one, Haymitch," I say.

"Take it up with Chaff. I didn't spill his drink on you. Though if you ask me, you look better without it."

Yes, I'll take my fashion advice from a man who would still look and smell like a pigsty, if it weren't for me. The only reason is even passable right now is because I picked out his suit and practically forced him at gunpoint to practice personal hygiene. "I _didn't_ ask you."

Haymitch turns to his friend, completely ignoring me. "Trust me. The less she wears, the better."

Chaff raises his eyebrows and winks when he sees me looking. "And how would he know?

"Oh, Ms. Trinkett and I have a very _close _relationship. I've seen her in the afterglow of a bout of vigorous exercise. Quite a sight to behold," he says, looking me up and down. His insinuations make me choke on my champagne. It's one thing when he's trying to make me uncomfortable with his innuendoes. That I can handle. But for him to publicly drag my name through his mud is another thing entirely. I won't stand for it. I can tell they're trying to bait me, so I have to play this differently.

Placing my hand playfully at my hip, I say, "Sorry to disappoint you, Chaff, but your friend is delusional. The only part Haymitch had in my bout of vigorous exercise, as he calls it, was as a peeping Tom. Believe me, if I ever lowered myself to 'work out' with Haymitch, he wouldn't be able to keep pace."

Clearly, I've amused Chaff because he slaps me hard on the back, sending me a few inches forward. "I like this one. How old is she?"

It seems Haymitch isn't quite as enamored of me as Chaff. He takes a swig of his beer, glaring at me. "How should I know? It's not like we exchange birthday gifts."

Chaff winks at me, as if he's now my new best friend in the entire world. "Maybe you should."

"What a wonderful idea. Haymitch, why don't you start by buying me a new suit?" I say.

He returns my sugary sweet smile with one of his own. "I have something better." He turns around and whistles. "Hey, Finnick, get over here. We have a birthday girl, and she needs a present."

Alright, that wasn't expected, but I can deal with this. I think.

Finnick Odair detaches himself from his escort and the bevy of Capitol women flanking him. He saunters—there really is no other word to describe it—over. Even though he isn't in the Games, it seems like he's still consulting the stylists. Or perhaps he just likes wearing skintight and revealing clothes. In seconds, he's sidled up beside me, and try as I might, I can find no detectable flaw. Everything about him is gorgeous. His deep sea green eyes are an escort's dream, and at the moment they're trained on me.

"Happy Birthday," he licks his lips, then bends down to kiss my hand, "Effie."

I am going to kill Haymitch Abernathy, and he must see that because he says, "If you're nice, I'll get him to strip for you."

I yank my hand back from Finnick's soft grasp, and wait for his outraged reaction. He doesn't even bat an eye.

"Did you know Effie was supposed to be your escort?" Haymitch says, by way of introduction.

"What a travesty. Guess we'll have to make up for all that lost time," Finnick says, as he looks me over and grins. It's so dazzling, I almost miss the pouting of the District Four escort. Almost. I smirk over at Alexandria and link my arm with Finnick's elbow.

"And you haven't even seen her without her wig," Haymitch adds.

Finnick pulls at one of the cotton candy blue curls, twirling it around his finger. "My birthday is coming up soon too. Maybe Effie and I will both have our wishes come true…"

Chaff laughs. "You've got your work cut out for you, pretty boy. Effie has high and exacting standards. Said even Haymitch couldn't satisfy her."

"No surprise there," Finnick says, and I find myself laughing, which seems to make everyone but Haymitch laugh even harder. "Somehow, I think I'll manage. Right, Effie?"

"I have the utmost confidence in your abilities," I find myself saying, caught up in the frivolity of the moment. When I realize what I've said, I feel a blush course over my entire body. Lifting my champagne glass to my lips, I discretely sniff the liquid, wondering if it's been tampered with. I can't tell.

Haymitch shakes his head. "Well, don't get too attached. Effie's married to her work, and as soon as she's gotten what she's wanted, I wager she'll send you packing," he says.

"Ignore him, Effie. He's just a cynical, old man," Finnick says.

"Don't forget impotent," Chaff adds, wiping tears from his eyes.

"When she kicks you out of her bed, don't come crying to me," Haymitch grouses, though I can tell he's enjoying himself too. I've never seen like this before. It's a nice change.

"Don't take it personally, Finnick. He's just a jealous drunk. But I still think you're beautiful. In fact, my birthday's in a few weeks, why don't you give me a dance instead?" Chaff says through his guffaws.

"Do I have your permission, Effie?" Finnick leans down and whispers in my ear, "You can say, 'yes.'" It tickles, and I start giggling.

"That won't be necessary," I say. "I don't like sharing."

Haymitch spits out his drink, and rather than find it disgusting, I start laughing again.

"Who replaced my stick-in-the-mud escort with this wild and crazy woman?" he says.

"What? I can have fun too," I say, taking a small sip from my champagne.

Finnick joins Haymitch on the couch, leaving the middle cushion open. He pats it, looking at my expectantly. My feet are aching from my four inch heels, so I drop down between them. Finnick refills my glass, and I continue sipping it as I sink further into the plush couch. I can't remember the last time I've felt this relaxed.

Things have been pretty slow for a while. There's probably an hour or two before the sun rises, and the career pack already settled in for the night. Lance is safe for the time being, and probably will be till morning.

Haymitch turns to me, his glass raised. "Congratulations on your tribute making it to Day Two."

I clink my empty glass against his. "Not my tribute; our tribute," I mumble sleepily, as I close my eyes and lean my head back on the couch.

I don't know how long I've been asleep, but a flurry of sound wakes me up. I open my eyes to hear Chaff immediately say, "You might want to look away."

"What?" I ask, my brain still fuzzy. I blink, trying to clear out the sleepiness from my eyes, but all I've done is make it easier for me to see Lance Oakley get stabbed in the stomach by a Career from District One. Repeatedly. I never watch the killings, as it's not my thing, but it's too late to turn away. I see every second of it.

I think I'm going to be sick.

Finally, Lance is on the ground, but the career is still stabbing him, even though the cannon has already gone off. I can see the blood, spattering all over his beautiful, vacant face. "Why won't he stop? Can't he see he's already dead?"

I wait for an answer, but there isn't one.

Eventually someone says, "Well, the odds weren't in his favor."

I turn to the side where the voice came from. Finnick is asleep, so that leaves Chaff. "That's not funny!" I say.

He just shrugs. "Sure it is." Standing up, he says, "Well, my tributes already died yesterday. No use staying around here. I think I'll head back to the center now." Then he raises his glass and downs what's in it. "Happy Hunger Games."

I turn my head, trying to ignore him as he walks away, but everywhere I look the screens are filled with replays and expert analysis of Lance's death. I stare at my lap, the only place the images won't assault me. Something shifts under my hand, and I notice that my fingers are digging into Haymitch's knee. He's staring down at it, looking confused. I quickly remove my hand.

A few second later, Haymitch is tipping back another drink. "He made it to the second day, like you wanted," he says.

It's hard to see how that's an accomplishment when my mind won't stop flashing images of a knife being driven into Lance's gut.

"You think that makes me feel better," I say.

"It will have to do, since that's all I have to offer. Unless you want another drink."

"I don't see how you can joke at a time like this," I say.

"Better to laugh than cry, I always say," he replies, offering me a drink.

I push it away, and it sloshes onto his pants. Good, now we're even.

"Look, your highness, your little pet failed and having a hissy fit isn't going to make it better. His training scores were mediocre, and no matter how you try to spin it, his interview was a disaster. And even though you managed to get some people to invest in this doomed project, it never changed the fact that he was always going to fail. There was never anything you could have done about it to change the end result."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand. You didn't work nowhere near as hard as I did, and you take no pride in your job whatsoever."

"Get over yourself. You didn't even start working half this hard until you met Lance."

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing will come out. Haymitch is right. And I realize that I've broken the cardinal rule. I've become emotionally attached to my tribute. Lost objectivity. Put the good of the tribute before that of the Capitol. It's supposed to be about entertainment. By personalizing it, I've turned it into something else.

"I've always been one hundred percent committed to the success of my tributes," the words sound false, even to my ears.

Haymitch snorts. "Please. The only time I've seen you this upset is when you've ruined one of your new outfits. Do you even know the girl tribute's name?"

If it weren't for the sleep and alcohol traveling through my system, I'd remember.

Haymitch sneers at me. "Didn't think so, so don't turn this into an argument about who's more committed to their job. After all, aren't you the one who's always complaining about how lousy District 12 is, and how you can't wait to leave it? Poor Effie Trinkett, squandering her talent on the undeserving, pathetic weaklings of District 12. No wonder you've been doing a half-assed job since day one. And don't delude yourself by bringing up your efforts this year. The only reason you deigned to lift one of your perfectly manicured fingers to actually help is because you liked the boy. Otherwise, you would have left him rot, just like the girl. So how about you do everyone a favor, and get off your stupid high horse."

My eyes are burning, and Haymitch is looking a bit blurry around the edges. I don't want him to know that his words actually meant something to me, so I glare back at him, unblinking. He won't back down either, and as our eyes lock I notice a churning of emotions that almost perfectly reflects what I'm feeling in that moment. Rage, disappointment, disgust, blame, hurt, guilt, self-loathing.

I don't like it.

"Haymitch, lay off," a voice sternly says from behind me, pulling me back into reality. I start, realizing that Finnick hasn't been sleeping, but listening to this entire conversation.

Finnick's looking at me now with his unfathomable green eyes. There's no sensuousness or humor, just plain curiosity, and it's making me squirm. I force myself to give him a smile. It's only a poor facsimile of my usual radiant grin, but at the moment it's all I can manage.

I stand to my feet, needing to escape both their scrutiny. "I have to go. I missed my daily run and…" My mind draws a blank.

"It was nice to finally meet you, Effie," Finnick says.

I nod. "You too. Goodbye."

I walk away, trying not to stumble.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading. Please review. **


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